When Coping Hurts
by Wyeth
Summary: First published story. It's on the dark side, and I get that isn't everyone's cup of tea so feel free to skip it. Centers mainly on JJ/Emily, told from JJ's POV. No Will/Henry. Eventual femslash. TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm is a main theme of this story. If that would be a trigger for you, please take care of yourself and don't read.
1. Chapter 1

The blade made a shallow yet satisfying initial scratch across my upper thigh, leaving a trail of tiny crimson beads rising to the surface. The next cut, just below the first and exactly the same length, was deeper. I took a ragged breath and gave in to the searing pain before the rush of endorphins took over. My knees were bent and blood trickled down my thigh now, each drop splattering into the empty white bathtub like paint on a blank canvas. I'd long since learned the bathtub was the best place for this. Much better than scrubbing blood off floors or out of linens. Thoughts of the current case started to press in and I silenced them with the blade, dragging it slowly across my flesh for the third time. I ran my finger across each of the lines, blood smearing beneath my touch. I inhaled slowly, deeply, and then exhaled – fear and frustration and anger and sadness all escaping in the warm, sticky blood.

My thoughts drifted to the first time I'd cut myself. It had been six short weeks since Rosalyn had committed suicide and the very thought of cutting should have been repulsive to me. Would you drive on the same road you'd just witnessed a fatal crash? Through a blur of tears I'd fumbled with the blade, the remaining pieces of the disposable razor scattered on the floor by my feet. I was unsure where to begin on my canvas of virgin flesh and this indescribable need I was giving in to hadn't come with an instruction manual. Once those first cuts were made though, a series of neat lines on my inner arm, the relief I'd felt was instantaneous and undeniable. The bite of the razor and the shocking red trails it left were proof I was alive and the sadness that had threatened to swallow me just moments before was now buried beneath a beautiful numbness.

I carried my secret to college and later to the FBI Academy but rarely needed it. Even now it was infrequent but irreplaceable. I could recall each time I'd done it since joining the BAU. Exactly sixteen times in five years. The first was after my second case with the unit. I'd held a press conference at Hotch's request but inadvertently shared information with the press that tipped off the unsub and allowed him to elude us for another 3 days, giving him opportunity to murder another victim. The next was the night Reid had been rescued after the Tobias Henkel case. The guilt I carried for my role in his kidnapping and the torture he'd endured enveloped me like a fog, thick and blinding. It was only when we'd gotten back to our hotel the night of his rescue and I'd pulled the little black case out of my go-bag – the one with the scalpels, gauze, and bandaging tape – and brought the cool metal to my skin that I could feel my heart pound and my thoughts began to slow.

I was meticulous and controlled, even in this act of rebellion against my own physical body, and no one had ever known. Since that first night in my childhood bedroom I'd learned there were better places to cut, places that wouldn't require excuses and explanations, and my upper thighs became my location of choice. Early on, once the high of release began to wear off, I'd feel panicked. Knowing others would see this aberrant behavior as something more than it was – a coping mechanism, a cleansing, if you will – and judge me for it. Shame me. My own parents, still reeling from Rosalyn's suicide and hyperaware of my own moods and actions, would have been the most likely but I'd successfully hid it from them. College brought the threat of losing my athletic scholarship; the Academy carried the threat of being ejected, and thus derailing all future plans, for "mental instability;" and then there was my current position with the BAU. I was particularly proud of the way I'd kept it from those closest to me – this surrogate family of mine who analyzed behavior and expressions and words for a living. In an odd circular way, cutting helped me maintain the façade that would keep my team from ever knowing I self-harmed.

Setting the scalpel on the edge of the bathtub, I turned the shower on and jumped when the frigid water hit my skin. As the water warmed I began to relax again and turned to face the spray, allowing it to run over my thighs. Blood ran down my legs, diluted to a rusty pink before swirling down the drain. I lathered a washcloth with soap and hissed as I lightly pressed it to the wounds, but even that pain was in its own way satisfying. A reminder of what I'd just done.

I toweled off and slipped into a bra and underwear, cursing to myself as a trickle of blood ran down my left leg. I'd gone a bit deeper than I'd intended on that one. I shouldn't need stitches, _god, what a fuck up that would be_ , but this was going to leave a thick scar by the time it healed. Another pale ridge across my thigh, just like the others. Some might see them as a sign of weakness, but saw them as testament to my survival.

I took a few squares of gauze from my kit, doubled them over, and taped them down firmly with bandaging tape. That would have to do for now. I finished dressing and coiled my damp hair into a high, loose bun. I was startled to see Emily reclined on one of the beds when I exited the bathroom and averted my eyes as I dropped my dirty clothes, the little black kit tucked inside, into a pile on the floor next to my go-bag. I hadn't expected to see her back so soon and didn't trust my facial not to give me away.

"Hey. You're jumpy - you alright? How's your headache?" Emily's face was passive but there was an unmistakable hint of concern in her voice. Brave, cool, collected Emily, who revealed so little of herself to the rest of us. She was curled up with the TV playing a reality show about affluent women living in New York. That woman never failed to amuse me.

"It's just this case, you know?" I lied. "We've been two steps behind this guy and I'm just frustrated I guess." While the latter part was true, it was also a pretty routine scenario with this job and not at all what had led me to feign a headache and return to the hotel room before the others today.

"I get it. And we'll get him, JJ. We almost always do," she reassured. It was obvious Emily didn't quite believe me but she was gracious enough to drop it for the time being. The unwritten BAU code of not profiling each other was in play.

Months passed, cases were solved, and life went on as usual. Until one morning when it didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

We were in rural Oklahoma on an abduction case, staying at the only motel in town. The kind of place that could have doubled as the setting for a horror movie but Garcia swore it was the best she could do unless we wanted to be a forty-five minute drive from the sheriff's office, and while the rest of us were more than happy to move, Hotch made it clear we'd be just fine right where we were. We were doubled up, which happened from time to time, and my easy relationship with Emily made it far less of a issue than it might have been for, say, Hotch and Rossi or Morgan and Reid. Back in our room, Emily and I had a giggle at their expense, picturing either pair together in a king sized bed, each facing the wall and pretending the other didn't exist.

The next morning found us back at the sheriff's office shortly after sunrise. An anonymous tip had come in overnight and left us with a pretty good idea where our unsub would be holed up with his victim, a twelve year old girl he'd kidnapped as she rode her bike home from a friend's house four days prior.

"Let's go, everyone," Hotch directed unnecessarily. We jogged to the SUVs, Hotch, Reid, and Rossi in the first, followed by Emily, Morgan, and I close behind, tailed by two cruisers from the sheriff's office.

Kevlar vests and radios in place, Emily and I were now checking our weapons as a matter of habit while Morgan drove. Hotch's voice broke through over the radio.

"I want Emily and JJ to enter first." Morgan huffed his disapproval at this but Hotch's voice continued unknowingly. "We know he responds better to women and you'll have the best chance at negotiating with him. Morgan and Dave, you'll take the front and Reid and I will go around back. Emily, JJ...it goes without saying - you signal for us the moment you feel you're no longer in control in there."

We pulled up in front of the dilapidated house and exited the vehicles, doors left open in haste.

Emily and I approached the front door, weapons drawn. She pounded on the door, once, twice.

"David Miller, this is Agent Prentiss with the FBI," she called through the closed door. "I'm coming in with another agent." She turned the doorknob and to my surprise it opened easily. Years of tactical training and time spent together in the field made words unnecessary – she pushed the door open and I entered the house, quickly scanning the empty space as she stepped in behind me. The first floor windows had been boarded over and the dark room was a harsh change from the sunlight outside. My heart raced for the precious seconds it took my eyes to adjust. It was empty though, and we quickly cleared the few remaining rooms on the first floor. The floor creaked overhead and we exchanged glances as we advanced to the stairway.

"David, we're coming up," I called up the stairs. "We want just want to talk."

"Then you'll be coming up unarmed, I assume." The voice came from the top of the stairs, but still no one appeared.

"David, we – " Emily started.

"No!" The disembodied voice overhead boomed. "If I see a weapon, I shoot the girl."

Emily tucked her Glock into the waist of her pants at the small of her back and pulled her shirt down over it. A split second to consider my options had me doing the same. Emily led the way up the stairs, that warm, soothing voice of hers already at work.

"David, we know you never meant to hurt Callie. She has a family who is very worried about her and we're just here to help her get home to them. That's all we want." Her elbows were at her sides, hands up, in as unthreatening a position as possible.

The unsub was standing in the corner of the open loft, his arm so tight around the girl's neck I was surprised she was even still breathing.

"It's okay, Callie," I reassured her. "You're safe now."

"We know how this is gonna go." The unsub cut in. "As soon as I let her go, you'll shoot me." His blood shot eyes were wide and he waved his gun wildly with his free hand but Emily never flinched. I took a step forward to stand beside her. Now that I could see him clearly in the dim light, he looked strung out. This was going to make an already dangerous situation that much more unpredictable.

"No, David," I countered, keeping my voice soft and low. "We're just here for Callie. Let her go and this ends with no one getting hurt."

"Help me!" Callie croaked, her voice raspy. "Please!"

"You're going to be just fine," I told her, much calmer than I felt. The air nearly hummed with tension.

It all happened so fast. In hindsight, it's so clear where you went wrong, isn't it? But at the time, you're making life altering decisions in mere fractions of a second. Taking a single step closer, Emily slowly extended her arm to Callie. In response, the unsub brought his revolver to the girl's temple. Reflexively, I reached for the panic button on the radio on my left hip to notify the team our situation was quickly devolving. That small movement was enough to make the unsub think I was reaching for an unseen weapon, and that's when time slowed. He pulled the trigger and the body of that scared little girl crumpled to the floor, instantly lifeless. Emily drew her weapon and had fired three shots to the unsub's chest before I made it to Callie. I crouched next to her and felt for a pulse. Nothing. She'd been shot at point-blank range and the damage done to her would have made it obvious to anyone that she was gone, but I pulled my hand back and looked at my fingers, red with her blood, and suddenly couldn't form a coherent thought. There was a loud ringing in my ears and I barely registered the muffled voices around me. I didn't feel Emily's hand first on my shoulder, then under my arm as she pulled me to a standing position. I never heard the rest of the team enter. I couldn't hear Hotch's questions as he stood in front of me, trying to make eye contact. I didn't see Derek come beside me, never felt his arm around my waist as he led me down the stairs, and couldn't focus on Rossi's face as he and Derek led me to the SUV and opened the door for me. All I remember was Callie's face – the terror in her eyes the moment before the gun fired and the way the opposite wall bloomed scarlet the moment after.

I don't recall the drive back to the sheriff's department but later learned that Emily and Derek sat on either side of me in the back seat of the SUV. What I do remember, and will haunt me until the day I die, was seeing Callie's mother collapse as the deputy informed her and her husband that Callie had been killed. I tried to speak as we passed them but my tongue felt thick and I couldn't produce a sound. Emily and Derek nearly carried me to the back of the station and sat me down in an interrogation room, the only private space in the building.

Derek said something to me that I couldn't hear, and then the door closed behind him as he and Emily left the room. I looked down at my hands and stretched my fingers, tight and sticky with dried blood. Callie's blood. The girl who would still be alive and in the midst of a tearful reunion with her parents if not for me.

Some time had passed, but I couldn't say how long before Emily and Derek rejoined me in the interrogation room, this time with Hotch in tow.

"She's in shock. She can't be alone," Hotch said to the others, as though I wasn't in the room. "Emily, you'll take her back to the motel and stay with her. The rest of us will stay to wrap things up here. I'll check in with you when we get back, but please call if there's anything either of you need before we return."

"Let's go, JJ," Emily murmured gently as she pulled me to a standing position. With an arm around my waist, she led me back outside to an SUV. I looked for Callie's parents again but didn't see them.

We drove back to the motel for the most part in silence. Emily spoke to me a few times, but even when I could understand what she was saying I didn't have the words to reply. Finally, she reached over from the driver's seat and took my hand in hers, dried blood and all, where it remained until we pulled into the gravel lot of our roadside motel.


	3. Chapter 3

I sat on the edge of the bed. My ears were still ringing and every time I closed my eyes I saw only Callie's - the vacant, faraway gaze of her green eyes as I knelt beside her still body. Chills had set in and my body trembled violently.

"Let's get you into the shower, JJ. It'll help," Emily said gently as she bent down to pull off my boots. She left to start the water running in the bathtub, then returned and removed my Kevlar vest, then my belt and holster, followed by my shirt. I had no idea where my service weapon was, nor the back-up .380 I carried on my ankle. "Come on," she encouraged, "I'll help you up." Had I not been in shock I might have had some very different feelings about standing in front of my colleague and friend nearly naked. More importantly, I also wasn't comprehending that Emily was very quickly going to learn the one secret I'd been holding close for years.

She unbuttoned my pants and inhaled sharply as she slid them to my ankles, revealing the neat rows of scars across my upper thighs. Some were thin and pale and some still healing. Newer wounds, thick and dark pink.

"Oh JJ," she whispered, but said nothing further as she helped me into the bathtub and I sank down, the feel of the hot water starting to ground me. My eyes were closed but I could feel Emily's soft hands as she cupped water and dampened my hair, then washed and rinsed it for me. She used the washcloth and gently washed the rest of my body, like you might do for a baby. When she got to my thighs she paused and lightly ran a finger over one of the older scars. I didn't see the tears in her eyes.

Once the water turned cool Emily left me standing in the bathroom wrapped in a thick white towel as she rummaged through my go-bag for clean clothes. After dressing me, she led me wordlessly to the bed, where she sat behind me and brushed out my damp hair. I could only stare down at my hands, now clean. How could they be clean?

"I'm stepping out for minute to get you something to drink, okay? But I'll only be a minute, JJ. I'll be right back." She paused in the doorway and took a long last look at me before stepping out, probably unsure as to whether I was safe to be alone. I could barely walk though. I wasn't going anywhere. I laid down in the bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin, and turned on my side to face the wall.

Somehow, mercifully, I drifted off until muffled voices broke through the edges of my dreamless sleep. Hotch's, Emily's, and someone else's – a female voice I didn't recognize.

"She's been like this since the shooting." That was Emily's voice, and I could tell they were behind me now. "I couldn't get her to eat or drink anything."

"Has she spoken yet?" This was Hotch now, a rare note of worry in his voice.

"No," Emily replied, "nothing yet."

"Jennifer," this was the female voice I didn't recognize. I opened my eyes, but didn't change positions to look at my visitors. "Jennifer," she continued, "My name is Dr. Amy Whitley and I'm a psychiatrist at South Memorial. Your supervisor called me and asked if I could come check on you." She paused as I sat up weakly.

Hotch turned to Emily. "Let's give them some space," he said quietly and tipped his head to the door. I looked at Emily then, really made eye contact with her for the first time since the shooting, and what I saw nearly broke what was left of my heart. For the first time since I'd met her, Emily looked unsure of herself and utterly lost.

The psychiatrist asked me questions and I did my best to answer. She sat next to me on the edge of the bed and was patient as I tried to speak, my mouth dry and voice hoarse. She reassured me that she'd heard what had happened and that it was not my fault. That David Miller had been known to be mentally ill and self-medicating with methamphetamine, and while Callie's death was a terrible tragedy, I'd done what I had to do to protect Emily and myself and hopefully get the assistance of the team before harm came to Callie. She explained what had happened to my body and my mind - I was in shock but would be okay. That it was important for me to find someone I could trust to support me through this, and that she'd be recommending to Hotch there be some type of counseling once we'd returned to Washington before I was released back to work in the field. Her voice was soothing and the longer she talked, the more my mind began to clear. The ringing in my ears had stopped and I was able to carry on a conversation again. I didn't know how long she'd been there, but it was dark outside the window when she scrawled her cell phone number on the back of a business card and laid it on the bedside table next to me. She took my hand in both of hers and looked me in the eyes, her smile warm. "Take care of yourself, Jennifer. By all accounts you're an excellent agent and an asset to your team, and more broadly, to our country. What you're experiencing isn't abnormal and you can and will get through this, but you can't be afraid to ask for help. It will take time." I nodded and managed a thank you before she walked to the door. When it opened, I could make out Emily sitting on the concrete step just outside our room under the overhead lights, and when she heard Dr. Whitley step out onto the sidewalk she nodded to someone I couldn't see before coming in.

"Hey," she said quietly. "The rest of the team is pretty worried about you, but I told them you just needed your rest tonight." Her voice was the same one she used when interviewed child victims. A sharp pang of regret left my chest tight as I thought about what I'd put the rest of the team through today. My current state probably wasn't inspiring a lot of confidence in having me on the team.

"I am so sorry, Em –"

"Stop." She put one hand up as if to reinforce her instructions. "You have nothing, _nothing_ to be sorry for, JJ. Can I sit?" She waited for my answer before taking a seat on the bed next to me. She looked down at her hands, now folded in her lap as though she was unsure what to do with them. "Will you eat something? It's late, everything's probably closed, but the rest of the team brought some food back from dinner and I can heat it up in the lobby for you. You haven't eaten all day."

"No thank you, I'm really not hungry." She looked so worried and my guilt over what I'd put her through told me I needed to give her a task to feel like she was helping. "I am so thirsty though – could I get a bottle of water?"

"Of course," she answered quickly, and produced a bottle from the mini fridge in our hotel room. She paused and chewed on her bottom lip, clearly unsure how to proceed.

"JJ, I don't know how to bring this up and now probably isn't the best time anyway, but at some point we have to talk about what I saw in the shower today."

The realization of what she was referring to hit me and my stomach twisted. I needed an explanation but what could I say that would satisfy her? "Emily, whatever you think saw – "

"What I _did_ see, JJ."

I didn't have a reply. Emily must have read this as ongoing evidence of my fragile state and backed down.

"Let's talk about it later, JJ. I just…" Her voice trailed off and she sighed, biting her lower lip again. "I just want you to know I'm here in the meantime, okay? I'm always here for you."

"I know," I whispered. I couldn't look at her. There was no use arguing. My hope was that we'd get home and get wrapped up in new cases and she'd forget all about it. I should have known better.

"We should get some sleep. Hotch would like us at the airport by nine a.m. tomorrow." She paused, and I caught her looking from the bed where I now sat to the other double bed in the room. "Do you…do you think you'll be able to sleep ok, or…?" Poor Emily.

I managed a smile to reassure her. "I'll be okay, Em. Thank you. For everything."

But I was not okay. Shortly after Emily had showered and turned out her bedside lamp, I heard her slow measured breaths and knew she had fallen asleep. I closed my eyes as well, then tossed and turned until my mind finally gave up and I drifted off.

I was standing back in the loft of the old house, the unsub still with his arm around Callie, who was pleading with me to save her. Emily stood next to me as well, shouting at me to save Callie, asking me what I was waiting for. I leapt forward and a shot rang out, then a second one. Callie crumpled to the floor but this time Emily was also next to her, blood pooling around her head like a rose in bloom. I ran to them both, but their pale skin and empty eyes told me everything. I screamed and fell to the floor between them.

"JJ! JJ, shhh…it's okay. You're okay. It was just a dream." I awakened with a jolt, panting, my forehead damp with sweat. Emily was bent over me, her cool hand smoothing my hair back. She let it rest briefly on my cheek before pulling away. "It was just a dream, JJ. I'm right here."

I swallowed thickly and reached toward the bottle of water on the nightstand. Emily picked it up and held it for me as I sat up.

"Scoot over," Emily instructed, placing the now empty bottle back on the table. I did as I was told and she climbed into bed next to me, fitting her body behind mine as I laid back down on my side. She placed her hand on my arm and the weight and warmth of her was all the reassurance I needed to fall back asleep, this time peacefully.


	4. Chapter 4

We didn't say much the next morning. We'd both slept until after eight which didn't leave much time for getting ready and being on the jet by nine. I was feeling better in some respects but the weight of the previous day, and Emily's discovery of my cutting and what that might mean for my career, pressed heavily. Emily wasn't the only one with compartmentalization skills though and I put them to good use as I carefully applied my makeup and checked my smile in the hotel bathroom mirror.

"Hey, how are you this morning?" Spencer closed the book he was reading as Emily and I stepped onto the jet, concern written all over his face. "I was really worried about you."

"Much better. Thanks Spence." I squeezed his shoulder as I passed him to take a seat near the rear of the aircraft. Emily stowed her bag and dropped next to me - I knew she'd be keeping close watch now. I'd thought about it as I got ready that morning though and decided it was probably better that way. If I let her think she knew how I was feeling, opened up to her in small ways, it could be enough to reassure her that I was in control and everything was fine. That nothing more needed to be said about the previous day and her discovery. I could hope anyway.

The others expressed similar concern as they boarded but were respectful enough to realize this wasn't the time or place to discuss the matter further. Even Garcia, who probably knew every last detail by now, kept her texts to me simple and cheerful.

 _Morning, sweet pea! Let's chat when you get back. Have a safe flight!_

I tried to nap on the plane but couldn't fall asleep. I was certainly in no mood to talk either though and caught Emily watching me like a hawk every time I stole a glance at her. I closed my eyes and pretended to rest until we landed.

It was early afternoon when we arrived back at Quantico and the rest of the team scattered to catch up on paperwork with the hopes of having a short day. I sat down at my desk and leaned back in my chair, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. Never could I have imagined how this week would end just four short days ago when I sat in the same place and took a call from the Shelburne County, Oklahoma sheriff. I took stock of the files, paperwork, and Post-its littering my desk. For once I was grateful to have such a heavy workload. I was going to need the distraction.

There was a soft knock at my door and Hotch entered without waiting for a response, taking a seat in front of my desk. It was an unusual dynamic - me sitting at the desk and him across from me like a subordinate.

"How are you doing?" he asked, no preamble. Might as well get to it, I guess. I had a pretty good idea what was coming.

"I'm okay." No sense in going overboard, he'd know better anyway. My plan with Hotch was going to be just like my plan for handling Emily – give them just enough to think I'm being open and honest with them.

"As I'm sure you're aware, you'll need to meet with a Bureau psychologist before returning to the field. This is standard procedure and no reflection of my confidence in your ability to do your job," he reassured. I doubted that was true at all - after all, I'd been nearly catatonic just twenty-four hours prior, but I appreciated his attempt to make me feel otherwise.

"I understand."

"In the meantime, you'll continue your role here at Quantico and we'll talk again when you're cleared for the field. I'll have someone reach out to set up your first appointment before the end of business today." He stood to leave, but paused and cleared his throat. "JJ, I know this will be difficult, but I'll need your write up on the situation yesterday before I can submit our reports, ideally by tomorrow. I don't anticipate any legal action from the victim's family but it's critical we get your version of events on record as soon as possible." My stomach turned as Hotch brought up something I hadn't even considered. Wrongful death lawsuits were exceedingly rare in our work but never out of the question and if Callie's parents decided to pursue this, Emily and I would most certainly be the focus. Hotch seemed to sense my thoughts and looked apologetic. "JJ, please know that you have our…my support. If there's anything you need, my door's always open."

"Thank you, Hotch. I do know that and I appreciate it. I'll have my report on your desk tomorrow morning." I forced a smile, hopefully communicating that I was already well on my way back to normality while inside, I felt like a tightly wound coil was about to burst.

Hotch made good on his word and by 3pm I was sitting in an uncomfortable wingback chair in the office of Dr. Walter VonHansen, a Bureau psychologist who looked like he'd been ripped from a Civil war-era tintype. A neatly trimmed moustache and beard, wavy silver hair slicked back with pomade, and tight fitting navy suit coat he left buttoned even when sitting gave him the appearance of a battlefield general, and it soon became obvious his demeanor wasn't much different. I did my best to answer his questions succinctly but in a way that would satisfy him enough to move on to the next, and quickly learned to tell whether I'd accomplished this by the twitch of his moustache as I responded. He was almost a caricature and I had to stifle a giggle more than once as he looked down at me over his wireframe glasses. I hadn't seen a psychologist since shortly after Ros's death, but I was pretty sure they were supposed to be people you felt comfortable telling your deepest secrets to. I wouldn't tell Dr. VonHansen what color nail polish I was wearing.

I left the appointment feeling better, although not at all because it had provided me with any real therapeutic benefit. No, instead I felt confident I could play Dr. VonHansen like a fiddle and get him to sign off on my release in short order. Two, maybe three sessions and I would be back in the field with my team where I belonged.

"Jayj!" The unmistakable voice of Penelope Garcia called down the hallway toward me and her steps were punctuated by the staccato of her purple high heels as she closed the space between us. "How are you?" she nearly shouted, but she was already hugging me too tight for me to respond. Her hair smelled like cotton candy and flowers and was the perfect description of her personality in aroma form.

"I'm fine," I reassured her, smiling both to prove to her that I was, indeed, fine and because it was nearly impossible _not_ to smile around Garcia. "Really." It was clear someone had already talked to her about the events of yesterday, but that came as no surprise. Not much got past Garcia anyway.

"How about dinner tonight, honey? We'll order some Chinese and watch a movie. I'll invite Emily too, make it a low-key girl's night."

"Oh, thank you Penelope but I'm pretty tired. I think I'm just going stay home tonight." Her face fell.

"Raincheck?" I offered.

"Of course, honey. Any time." We walked back to the bullpen and I did my best to make conversation, but the knowledge that I was going to have to sit down and write up a detailed account of the shooting before the next morning loomed over me.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry, this is such a short chapter – the next will be longer, I promise. I actually have the next two chapters written but am going back over them because I feel like I tied too neat of a bow wrapping up such a heavy subject. Don't worry though, I love JJ and Emily too much not to give them a happy ending.**

It had been 45 minutes and so far I'd managed to write only the basic facts into my report: the events leading up to the attempted rescue and our initial arrival at the house. The blinking curser mocked me as I struggled to produce a report that would be detailed enough to protect us in the event of a lawsuit, but vague enough to protect what was left of my fragile nerves.

A knock in the doorway interrupted my thoughts. "What time should I be over?" Emily asked casually, leaning against the door frame.

I must have looked confused because she clarified, "You're not staying alone this weekend, Jen. We can do this at your place or mine, I just assume you'd rather go home."

"I'm fine, Emily. Really. I'm just going to go home, take a hot shower, and go to bed."

"And you can do that, but I'm coming with you. This is nonnegotiable, JJ. You are not spending the next two and a half days alone. If you think you'll be a while yet, I'll run home quick for some clean clothes and then grab some food and meet you at your place. Or I can just wait here too if you're about ready to go."

I was suddenly and inexplicably irritated. "I don't need a babysitter, Emily. I'll be just fine. I'll see you Monday morning." Her eyes narrowed and I knew I'd already lost the argument.

"Like I said," she repeated, "nonnegotiable. I'll be at your apartment in an hour. That should give you plenty of time to wrap up whatever you're working on." She stood and promptly walked out of my office, leaving me no time to formulate a rebuttal.

I heaved a sigh and turned back to my laptop and started typing. _No way past this but through it_ , I thought, and spent the next 20 minutes explaining my role in the death of two people, one just an innocent twelve year old girl.

As I sat in rush hour traffic on my way home, I contemplated how I was going to handle the next sixty hours or so with Emily analyzing my every move. It was a given that she was going to want to talk about my cutting, and most likely about the shooting again too. I knew her well enough to know her protective instincts would be on overdrive. To most, Emily was a very closed off person. She was the type of person you could work with for years and then realize one day you didn't know her actual birthday, or the city she was born in, or her father's name. She revealed only glimpses of herself, at chosen times and in carefully measured amounts. She was loyal, yes. You'd probably never have a more loyal colleague and friend - someone more likely to have your back in any situation - but to know her? Really know her as intimately as she knew you? Nearly impossible. Nearly. I liked to think my relationship with her was unique, that I knew her better than most. She was no open book with me either, but I'd developed an ability to read her and I think she realized this. And instead of pushing away, she relaxed a bit, like she didn't always have to be on her game. I'd come to love Emily deeply over the years we'd worked together. There were times I thought the relationship could be something more, but the idea of potentially ruining this friendship was more than I could bear and it just wasn't worth the gamble. I'd rather miss out on something amazing than risk losing her altogether.

Jerked from my thoughts, I slammed my brakes as two girls on bicycles suddenly darted out into my lane. One of them was blond, and they both looked to be about twelve years old. _Jesus Christ._ The car behind me honked and I flashed him a quick gesture to let him know I wasn't sorry. I hoped Emily didn't have a problem with me drinking. I was barely holding it together.

I needn't have worried. If Emily was concerned about me coping in an unhealthy way, alcohol wasn't on her list of poor choices. She was already in my kitchen when I reached my apartment, having used the key I'd given her long ago. There were three bottles of wine and a bottle of whiskey on the counter alongside paper bags of groceries. The smell that met me at the door reminded me I'd had nothing but a bagel in the last two days and my stomach growled in protest.

"Hey, dinner's almost ready. If you want to go get changed, I should have it on the table by the time you get back."

"Mmm…not til I see what's in that pot." She stepped aside, wooden spoon in hand, as I leaned over the bubbling pot on my stove. "That smells amazing, Em. How the hell do you make a stew in less than an hour?"

She laughed. "I have my secrets. Now go change. I'm hungry too." She shooed me from the kitchen and I headed back to the master bedroom.

I returned a few minutes later much more comfortable, barefoot in my broken-in jeans and favorite t-shirt.

"Now why have you never done this for me before," I teased, finishing my second bowl of stew. "Had I known you could cook like this, we wouldn't have been ordering takeout all these years."

"Well, you could offer to cook too, you know. I don't mind burnt grilled cheese and cold cereal."

I threw my crumpled napkin at her in mock annoyance. "I'm not that bad."

She just quirked an eyebrow.

"Fine," I acquiesced, "maybe my talents lie elsewhere. Now where's that wine I saw earlier?"

She poured a glass for us both while I loaded the dishwasher. We made our way to the living room and I curled up on the couch while Emily slid a movie into the DVD player. Watching her, I loved that she felt so at home in my apartment and for a few moments, some of the darkness I was carrying was replaced by a warmth and tenderness for this woman who loved me so well.

The rest of the night was just what I had needed. We finished the movie and the bottle of wine, but we were both tired and decided to call it a night. I had braced myself for it, but Emily never tried to have a "talk," with me – the conversation was, well…normal.


End file.
